When I first came to Largs almost five decades ago, I lived above a pub (that probably explains a lot), and I used to help out in the bar, owned by father-in-law John Millar at the Royal Oak, now the tapas restaurant in Boyd Street.

One of the pleasures of the bar which, among others, was the favourite haunt of the local farming community - the McNicol brothers loved their Crawford Four Star - was pulling the pints on the Tuesday folk night.

The guitarists, banjo players, fiddlers and singers were a talented bunch, including the lads of the legendary Chanty Dyke band.

Three of the Royal Oak musicians formed a trio, aptly enough, calling themselves Brocade. They were Ian 'Maxie' Richardson, Graham 'Catweasel' Duncan - both now playing in a celestial ceilidh - and Harvie Smith, who was my fellow Stevenstonian.

This came to mind as I watched a TV programme of the famous Woodstock festival in New York State. The fascinating record of how the iconic music festival irrepressibly took organic shape, in farmer Max Yasgur's fields, attracting between 400,000 and half-a-million 'restless souls and kindred spirits' in August 1969, acted as a form of synchronicity for me.

The Brocade song Restless Souls, written by Richardson and Duncan, was a favourite of mine, with its haunting melody and lyrics which reflected the mystical mood of Woodstock. If anyone has it recorded somewhere, please let me know.

How did it go? "Restless souls and kindred spirits go their own sweet way...but they saw the dream decay; in countless conversations we have tried to reason way, the peaceful generation had a dream and let it die." Or words to that effect.

They were identifying with the hundreds of thousands of American youth who, to a backdrop of the Vietnam War and the Cold War, believed they were creating a new world. It was to be the landmark festival of peace, music and love.

Seen briefly in the old film of the American 'Dream' was the Keef Hartley Band, featuring brilliant saxophonist Jimmy Jewell, who played many times with Largs rock stars Graham Lyle and Benny Gallagher, including at a concert in Barrfields Pavilion Theatre. 

Here is where the synchronicity comes in. Jimmy Jewell is a good friend of a good friend of mine, Robin Lucas, a former professional singer-songwriter. When they lived in London, they played on tour with the Ronnie Lane Band (remember them, fellow pensioners?).

Robin and I worked on, and appeared in, a musical, Invisible, which played enthusiastically to audiences more than 20 times. It was for the benefit of SHIMS, the Scottish Head Injuries Musical Support Group, often collaborating with the Quarriers charity.

One of Robin's regular musical associates was the aforementioned Harvie Smith, who has also rehearsed with the great Jimmy Jewell, who often adds his saxophone magic to Robin’s songs.

Therefore, I feel touched by Woodstock. I was to embark on a long career in journalism in 1969 and viewed with half a century of nostalgia the TV programme showing classic clips of The Who, Joan Baez, Arlo Guthrie, Ravi Shankar playing in a downpour, The Incredible String Band, Joe Cocker, the emergence of Crosby, Stills, and Nash, many more, and ending with Jimi Hendrix who came on at half past eight on the last Monday morning when 'only' 30,000 remained.

The site, which is now an American Historic Place, had to be moved to Bethel, 43 miles from Woodstock, and the 24-dollar ticket ($160 today) gave way to a free festival as so many flocked to the site and they could not collect the money. 

Out of almost half a million, two people died; one from a drug overdose and the other a guy who slept under a tractor without the driver realising. Two babies were apparently born.

Ah, "restless souls and kindred spirits"...what happened to the counter culture generation? Look around, they are always there.

My Thought for the Week: Those who don't share their candle remain in the dark.

I had my first bath in four years last week...and it went swimmingly well.

I happened to mention this to people and they laughed uproariously like I was Billy Connolly in his prime. (Did you titter, madam?)

It was an honest statement. I haven’t had a bath at my disposal for at least four years. In fact, the last time I had had a bath was in a Glasgow hotel, and I needed Her Indoors to help me out because it was a deep sunk bath and I had put in too much soapy suds that I slithered along the bottom like an oily eel whenever I tried to manoeuvre myself out.

Aye, old age doesn’t come itself.

However, last week’s bath tub in a holiday apartment was shallow enough, with accessible handrails, to extricate myself without slipping. It got me thinking (Editor's note: oh, not again): do young folks take the time to bathe nowadays?

Do they take with them their waterproof social media ‘tablets’ so that they can still spend hours on war games obliterating cyber-submarines on their surreal screens. (Editor’s note 2: You don’t know what you’re talking about, do you?)

Anyhow, I have tasked my researchers with finding out the percentage of the new cool generation who bother to take a bath. And are rubber ducks still involved?

Let me end (Editor: Thank God) with a piece of philosophy. Existentialism means that no-one can take a bath for you. And if you go long enough without a bath, even the fleas will leave you alone.